


Sheets

by Imminent_and_Daring_Escape



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: But Not My First Fanfiction Rodeo, Canon Compliant, Early Days, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Ficlet, Good clean fun, Height Differences, John Watson Is Really Short, Kissing, Laundry, M/M, My First Work in This Fandom, Post-Series, Suggestive Themes, Vignette, Wokka Wokka
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-04-02 05:15:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4047460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imminent_and_Daring_Escape/pseuds/Imminent_and_Daring_Escape
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the bottom of the laundry bag is one of Sherlock's luxury sheets--the one that happened to be on the bed the first time they tumbled onto it together.  John is in the midst of taking an olfactory trip down recent memory lane when Sherlock catches him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sheets

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t have a beta or britpicker; this is entirely self-edited. I hope to do more vignettes and write more in general, so cc is welcome! I'm looking to get more involved in the Sherlock fanfiction community/communities, but have no idea how and am painfully introverted and shy. So if anyone can point me in the right direction, or just would like to be a beta or britpicker, please let me know! 
> 
> My tumblr is https://www.tumblr.com/blog/imminent-and-daring-escape . There's not much on there other than reblogs of Sherlock things I find meaningful and a couple thoughts of my own (so far) but I'm hoping to add more original content as time allows.

John pulled bundles of sateen from the laundry bag and started feeding them into the washing machine. They’d exhausted Sherlock’s supply of bedding in short order and, like the ridiculous man he openly admitted to be, Sherlock had refused to sleep on John’s generic cotton sheets. John had waited until Mrs. Hudson went out with her friends to do this–not that she didn’t know or approve of what they were up to, just that he thought it more proper to clear the evidence when she wasn’t around. He considered the last bundle, the luxe fabric slippery soft against his fingertips. Glancing around to make sure no one was about, he raised it to his face and inhaled.

The thin, expensive material carried hints of sandalwood, jojoba, and shea, traces of grapeseed and chamomile, and notes of vanilla, citrus, and leather. One advantage of being a chemist: Sherlock designed his own skin and hair products. Intermingled with all of that pretentiousness were the simple chemical fragrances of John’s shampoo and aftershave.

John’s mouth twitched into a smirk, amused at the thought that he had defiled Sherlock’s most personal, intimate space with store-bought product. He shifted the bundle slightly and raised it to his face again. The sheet smelled different here: headier, muskier. This went deeper than fragrance and lotion, gel and soap. Raw personal scent clung to the tight weave, Sherlock’s and his own, satisfyingly impossible to differentiate–skin cells and sweat and a trace of semen.

A few short days ago, this sheet was just a big piece of fabric. Just one of Sherlock’s personal effects, nothing meaningful other than evidence of Sherlock’s ridiculously lofty tastes and sensitivity to textures. It was the last thing John pulled out of the bag, meaning it was the first thing stuffed in there, meaning it was from their first time. Now, John had the crazy urge to stuff it back in the laundry bag, take it back upstairs, and hide it somewhere so he could take it out from time to time and smell it as his mind replayed everything they had done and said that night. He closed his eyes and remembered how it had draped over him, white against blush, satin against skin; how it had slithered aside with a whisper as their bodies tangled together with hesitant desperation; how it had bunched under their backs as they’d moaned and moved and spilled.

But no, Sherlock would notice. He was notoriously possessive of his things, including mundane things, even though he alternatively treated those things with cavalier disregard or as precious commodities. John wouldn’t get away with it, even if he bought another set of these ludicrous things to swap. He pressed his face into the sheet one last time, his eyes closed and face flushed, his trousers feeling tight now.

“Human memory is notoriously fallible,” came a soft, deep rumble from a couple meters away.

If the ceiling had been just a bit lower, John swore he would have cracked his head on it. Exaggerated startle reflexes were just one of the many perks of PTSD, a fact Sherlock remembered or forgot as was convenient for him.

“But the more senses a person consciously engages, the more likely the memory will remain accurate to what really happened.” Sherlock had his enigmatic face on: smooth with a Mona Lisa smile, eyes level and keen and bewitching. 

John balled the sheet in his fists and glared murderously at him, breathing through his nose. “You scared me half to death,” he said, his voice dangerous.

“You really should pay more attention when doing potentially embarrassing things,” Sherlock said wryly, one slender hand resting on his slim hip. He sauntered forward, and John could see the beginning of a bulge in his black trousers. Suddenly, the pulsing of his heart and the pounding of his blood in his veins had a great deal less to do with PTSD than a moment before.

Sherlock loomed over John, quicksilver gaze drawing him in as he stared hungrily into his face, at his mouth, into his eyes. Slowly, he pulled the sheet from John’s steady, warm hands and brought it to his nose. He inhaled once, and John wondered just how many more scents he could detect with his finely-tuned senses compared to John’s more mundane ones. John licked his lips as Sherlock lowered the sheet, then stooped and reached past him to place it in the washing machine, making sure to brush John’s entire front as he moved. “Memories also become stronger with repetition,” he murmured as he straightened, watching with amusement as John’s face went from flushed to bright red.

John cleared his throat roughly. “Er, we’d have to use my sheets, and you said–”

“Then let’s create another memory to sigh over,” he drawled, eyes now sparkling. “The sofa is yet virgin territory, I believe.” He turned as if to leave, but John caught his arm and tugged him to a stop.

“I wasn’t sighing,” he said firmly. With Sherlock, it was best to be firm. Firm, right. John fought back a grin at the thought.

Sherlock raises his eyebrows and looked down at him in an expression that reminded John too much of Mycroft’s expression of disbelief. “Then you were all but.”

John rolled his eyes and released Sherlock’s arm. He closed the washing machine door with a soft snap and pressed the buttons that brought it to life, all the while surreptitiously assessing his surroundings for what he needed. There, in the corner, was Mrs. Hudson’s small step, the one she used to reach cleaning supplies on the tall shelf next to the machine. Turning to Sherlock, he said in a low voice, just barely audible over the water rushing into the machine, “You know what else is virgin territory?” He grabbed Sherlock’s arm again swiftly and pulled, shifting his weight so Sherlock went stumbling sideways. A half second later, John pressed a surprised Sherlock up against the washing machine, hooked the little plastic step with his foot, and dragged it over.

Now they were on the same level, John grinding his growing erection against Sherlock’s while their mouths met in hungry kisses. John arched Sherlock backward over the top of the machine, pressing his arse into the metal rim, confirming his eyeballed measurements. “Well look at that,” he murmured as he traced his tongue around the shell of Sherlock’s ear, feeling him shudder delicately at the contact. “This thing is the perfect height for me to bend you over it. We’d probably want to put a sheet down, but…” He paused to nibble Sherlock’s ear lobe and get his voice under control from the way Sherlock was grabbing his arse to press their bodies together. “Someone seems to have thrown the last one in the wash.”

With a twist out of Sherlock’s arms and a jaunty little hop, John stepped off the little plastic platform and made for the door. He only heard, not saw, Sherlock’s movement behind him. With a gleeful thrill, he burst into a run, taking the stairs two at a time up to their flat, Sherlock’s feet pounding behind him. The sofa would be perfect, he thought as he turned to take Sherlock’s tackle in a controlled fall. There was no way they would have made it to the bed, anyway.


End file.
